


Once Bitten

by tristinai



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloody Kisses, Brujah!Cullen, Camarilla (Vampire: The Masquerade), Cullen's POV, M/M, Modern Thedas, Toreador!Dorian, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampire the Masquerade AU, cullrian - Freeform, hints of coercion, hints of dubious consent, reluctant allies, they're both a little unhinged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: A decades long hatred is put to the test when Cullen arrives, battered and bleeding, on Dorian's doorstep.





	Once Bitten

**Author's Note:**

> As part of a writing challenge I was issued by [Kalisca,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalisca) I have written a shared _Vampire: The Masquerade_ Cullrian AU prompt. To complete this prompt, both of us had to meet the following three conditions:
> 
> 1) “I'm bleeding all over the carpet and I can't even understand what the hell you're saying.” ([VTMB prompt starters](http://captain-amoruca.tumblr.com/post/155768004747/vampire-the-masquerade-bloodlines-starters))
> 
> 2) _Vampire: The Masquerade_ setting
> 
> 3) Enemies reluctantly helping each other
> 
> This began as a joke between her and I, each declaring that if we were given the same prompt with the same conditions, both of us would end up writing a completely different story with our unique styles, hers being fluff while mine would end up being angst heavy. What we both ended up with came as a complete surprise to us.
> 
> The modern setting was of my own choosing, serving as the primary foundation for this re-imagining of Thedas. I attempted to weave elements of V:TM subtlety by adding twists on known Thedosian lore (i.e. Mafereth serves a role similar to Caine in V:TM and is the father of all vampires) and, since I am more familiar with the pen and paper World of Darkness games, I borrow more heavily from the printed source material than the game released on PC. 
> 
> Please leave comments and let me know what you think. This story was fun to write, certainly outside of my comfort zone since I don't often attempt AUs this far outside of canon. Also, check out [Kalisca's fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13793376). I am but a pauper playing in the queen's sandbox and she's the real mastermind behind this verse.

He staggers into a side alley, blood caking his torn shirt and faded jeans. He's losing too much, too fast and a heaviness that he's only ever experienced in the most violent bouts of hunger settles like a weight pushing him down towards the grimy street. He dizzily crashes against a garbage can, its loud clatter echoing off the chipping, stone walls and all that keeps him from tripping over his own feet is a hand that grasps at rough brick.

 

Curse the Maker and all the bloody shit he's been through tonight. Never, in his many years of following the man that had roused the masses to free Ferelden from Orlais, would Cullen believe Samson to betray the Camarilla and join the ranks of the Venatori.

 

With a bitterness that builds into a frenzy, his rage at being betrayed by his own sire boiling to an all-consuming hate that makes him want to tear into the wall, he grunts loudly, tries to punch at the red brick but stumbles into the wall instead. A litany of colorful phrases passes his lips and he knows it's only adrenaline that keeps the urge to collapse at bay.

 

He needs to feed. Without fresh blood, he'll pass out and dawn's approaching quick enough that he knows he's fucked if he doesn't drink soon.

 

Calming his ire, the Brujah takes in his surroundings. Bloody and battered and lurking in an alley already puts him at a disadvantage to coerce any passers by to stop and take pity on him, not that he expects anyone to be out this late at night. There must be some place he can go: a nearby blood bank, an animal shelter (shit, he really is _desperate)_ , maybe crawl into the sewers and beg one of the damned Nosferatu to help him...

 

A building at the end of the alley catches his eye, something about its ostentatious design triggering an unpleasant thought, has his lips pulling back grimly as he places a face to its sleek architecture.

 

Andraste's tits. Anyone but that fucker.

 

But he has only enough energy to make it to that prick's home before he passes out from blood loss.

 

Swallowing his pride, Cullen drags his bleeding, wounded body down the street.

 

*

 

He uses the last of his strength to climb up the few flights of stairs, drops heavily against the door with a loud groan. He's weary enough to almost ignore how demeaning this is, to go begging that—that _aberration—_ for any help but he's reached a point of desperation that he knows he can't afford taking the high road this time.

 

“Dorian,” he calls out, slamming his fist against the door. He sinks against it, waits another long moment, before pounding against it again.

 

When no one answers, he mutters something colorful, rests his cheek against the rich oak, blood smeared on it from his open wounds staining his pale cheek.

 

Just when he's ready to succumb to exhaustion, a voice that sounds too smug for his liking, has him gritting his teeth, sings through the door, “And to what do I owe the _pleasure_ of this unexpected visit?”

 

“I haven't the time for your games, Vint,” Cullen grits out. “Open up.”

 

A pause.

 

Maker's breath, he has yet to lay eyes on the asshole and already, Cullen's pissed off.

 

“Now, now, Rutherford. You can do better than that. I know civility is expecting too much of you brutes but you'll find a simple _please_ goes a long way.”

 

The Brujah wants to cuss in frustration but he knows the Toreador would take far too much pleasure in his continued suffering.

 

“Let me in and I'll recite you damned poetry, you vain _fuck._ ”

 

He waits, staves off the dizzying lull that makes him want to pass out.

 

As far as he can tell, the other vampire hasn't made any effort to move.

 

“...I'm still waiting for the _please._ ”

 

_Fuck you!_

 

Cullen has just enough self control to not say that to his would-be rescuer.

 

“...please,” he grunts.

 

Somehow, saying it makes him feel filthier than any other word the Toreador could make him utter.

 

“...louder,” Dorian answers.

 

“I'm not saying it again!”

 

He hears the clicking of shoes on hardwood, each step intentional, as the Tevinter walks away from the door. “Then I'm not letting you in. If it comes up at the next gathering, I'll let the others know of your unfortunate passing.”

 

“Curse Mafereth, will you _please_ let me in!”

 

No sound can be heard from the other side. The silence drags on long enough that the Fereldan regrets not going to the Nosferatu instead, eyelids drooping heavily, when he finds he's tumbling face first onto a thick, ornate rug.

 

He tries to lift himself up, only manages to drag his body the rest of the way into the Toreador's flat, before collapsing once more. Dorian makes a sound of distaste, steps over the injured Brujah, and clucks his tongue.

 

“This is oak. Do you know how taxing it is trying to remove blood stains from oak?”

 

He sighs, shuts the door loudly enough that the sound seems to reverberate in Cullen's head. But the injured vampire is too busy coughing up blood to hear any other follow up remark the Tevinter makes.

 

He catches a few words. ' _Southern brutes',_ something about being _'uncivilized'._ And he's pretty sure Dorian mentions a ' _lack of respect for my decor'_ but Cullen can't focus, not that he makes any effort to.

 

When there's a pause and Cullen realizes the other vampire is waiting for some sort of response, he mumbles, “I'm bleeding all over the carpet. Do you really expect me to understand what in the name of bloody Mafereth you're saying?”

 

“Barbarians,” Dorian sighs, _“Fasta vass,_ I'm surrounded by barbarians.”

 

Cullen grunts out in pain as an expensive, leather shoe toes at his side. “Could you _not._ ”

 

“Turn over and let me have a look. You did ask for my help.”

 

“A decision I'm already regretting.”

 

Cullen turns over, clutching his side. Blood's still pouring freely from the wound, his hand sticky and the air musky with the thick scent of copper. He squints up at the other vampire but can't quite focus, his vision swimming.

 

“There's no saving that rug,” the Toreador deduces, after a minute of bored scrutiny. “Such a shame: it was one of the few things I managed to salvage from Minrathous.”

 

“My wounds, Dorian.”

 

“Ah, right. Those.” Another pause. “You're bleeding.”

 

“I've been made aware of that.”

 

“There's no need for sass. A simple explanation on how you came by those wounds would suffice.”

 

He wants to argue the immediacy of aiding him over a recap of the shitty night he's been having but once the Toreador's fascination has been piqued, it's often hard to get him off the subject. “Samson's working for the Venatori. They attacked me and left me for dead when I refused to join them.”

 

It had been difficult, near painful, to resist the thrall that his sire has over him. The years of serving for a cause he believed in, alongside a clan member he respected, the vampire who had turned him, had made Samson's betrayal tear into Cullen, burn unseen scars beneath his flesh, and he's still reeling from the knowledge that his sire has left the Camarilla for those Sabbat cultists.

 

“How lovely,” the Toreador remarks, though Cullen detects a note of disgust that attempts to veil anger, “one of our kin has been seduced by the temptations offered by the Sabbat. It seems even the _best_ among you is thin-willed.”

 

“I'm not excusing what he fucking did,” Cullen snaps, grimacing as pain shoots up his side. “And the sooner you help me, the sooner I can report this to Prince Alistair and we can find that asshole before he makes it out of Denerim!”

 

“And how _exactly_ do you propose I help you?”

 

"Getting me someone to feed on would be a start."

 

"Have you someone I can contact? Because, as much as I adore aiding a fellow kindred, I am not letting a Brujah paw at one of my ghouls. Call me selfish."

 

 _I can think of many other more fitting things I can call you_ , Cullen thinks, irritably.

 

 _Self-righteous prick_ currently at the top of that list.

 

He winces painfully as he reaches for his blood-stained pockets, shaking hands patting down the front of his jeans. With a grimace, he drops his head back down. "Fuck. I must have dropped my phone. You'll have to find someone else."

 

"Really? You expect me to lure some common street urchin into my flat? Do I look like a Nosferatu? Have you no bloody standards?"

 

"I don't think I get the luxury of choice when I'm bleeding to death," Cullen says, angrily.

 

He's woozy enough that he struggles to stay conscious, the edges of his vision going fuzzy. He can't even focus on the handsome Toreador's face, though he hears, more than sees, the other vampire's disgruntled look. A sound of resignation follows, along with receding footsteps. Just when Cullen is certain he can no longer cling to consciousness, Dorian returns.

 

“I suppose you've left me with no other option.”

 

Something cold and wet dribbles onto his cheek. Immediately, Cullen's nostrils flare, the rich scent of copper—blood old, ancient, more pure than that which the Brujah carries—calls to him, beckoning him with the song of Mafereth, has hunger rippling with a voracity that aches more than the wounds that have left him too wary to lift his head. He reaches up, blearily, for the wrist hovering inches from his face, the large, open cut on Dorian's forearm dribbling the nectar of the gods, of the _first._

 

Just as his fingers enclose around the Toreador's wrist, hand becoming slick with Dorian's blood, panic grips the Fereldan and it's that brief second of sobering clarity that keeps him from pressing his lips to the open wound and drinking greedily for the sustenance his body so craves.

 

“I'll not drink your tainted blood,” Cullen snaps, shoving the vampire's arm from his face.

 

Nothing is more dangerous than drinking from a fellow kindred. And Cullen would sooner be damned and bled dry before he puts himself in thrall with that—that _abomination._

 

“Funny. Weren't you just saying you haven't the luxury of choice?”

 

“I'd rather die than drink from a—a _Pavus,_ ” Cullen sneers, mouth curling in disgust.

 

The Pavuses, a famed family of Sabbat ghouls, were unworthy of the blood they carry, generations of inbreeding ensuring that the blood of Mafereth flows as purely in their veins as the limitations of mortality allows. That the Sabbat in Tevinter breed ghouls for the purpose of embracing a chosen few defiles the legacy of Mafereth, one that should have never been offered to Dorian when he left Tevinter and joined the Camarilla.

 

The Vint had been a bottom-feeder, carefully bred cattle to be fed on. He has no idea what Amell had been thinking when offering the Tevinter the embrace.

 

“Then enjoy dying,” Dorian answers, sounding almost bored.

 

The scent of that Pavus blood becomes more compelling the more Cullen tries to resist it. Believing the dying vampire a lost cause, Dorian brings his wrist to his own lips, smearing dark, thick blood over his mouth and chin as he draws his tongue over the wound, sealing it.

 

Hunger has Cullen's eyes drawn raptly to the action, following the movement of the Tevinter's tongue. It angers him how enticing the other vampire looks, his own blood all over his face like some wanton street walker licking their own cum off their fingers. The Brujah cares little for the glamour of the Toreador clan, their hedonism and vanity too superfluous in the grander scheme of the Masquerade. But in that moment, nothing has ever looked so debauched, so alluring, to the Fereldan as Dorian.

 

And that, more than anything, fucking enrages him.

 

In less than a blink, Dorian is shoved viciously against the wall, cracks appearing in the vintage plaster, Cullen pressing his full weight against the Toreador so that the other vampire can't escape. Red hot ire leaves his hands shaking as they fist roughly at rich silk, the force popping off the top button of Dorian's shirt. But if the Tevinter is the least bit perturbed, his wolfish smirk gives none of that away.

 

“And here I thought you were content with dying.”

 

“Not another fucking word,” Cullen says, no longer able to resist the siren's call of the blood that sings to him, that smells of decadence and promise, staining the Tevinter's lips.

 

His mouth crashes violently against Dorian's, fangs drawn, moans tearing at the back of his throat when he finally gets a taste of what the Toreador has smeared over the lower half of his face. His hunger builds into a frenzy that he is quickly losing control of, fangs cutting Dorian's lower lip, tongue lapping at what little blood dribbles down the Tevinter's chin. Its hold on him is immediate, a burst of euphoria creeping and burrowing low in the Brujah's chest and he's so gone with _need_ _,_ he's hardly aware of the fingers gripping his golden locks tightly, of the pleased whimper tumbling off the Vint's lips.

 

Mafereth damn him if Dorian's getting sick pleasure out of this.

 

Though Cullen feels his wounds begin to heal, torn flesh sealing, it's not enough.

 

More. He needs _more._

 

He nips beneath the Toreador's chin, bites his way down Dorian's neck, his teeth leaving small marks, droplets of blood pooling on the light wounds that he runs his tongue over. He hears no pulse, the allure of what lays dormant in Dorian's veins not flowing with the crescendo of a rapidly beating organ but singing to him in arias that whisper of the ancient world. He's in danger of becoming enslaved the more he takes but his body is no longer his, teeth sinking into the vampire's neck and a pleasurable trill rippling in his chest as finally, _finally_ , he swallows mouthfuls of blood.

 

“Drink as much as you need,” Dorian gasps, head thrown back to expose more of that delicious, dark skin.

 

Hearing the Toreador's voice stirs something inside of Cullen, a compulsion that has him pulling the vampire closer to him. He becomes hyper aware of the cold body pressed against his, the bulge rubbing against his thigh, and every sound his continued feeding elicits. A hand runs down his back, rests low on the Brujah's hip, tugs playfully with the hem of his old jeans and all Cullen can think is how much he wants to make Dorian feel good, _needs_ to please the other vampire, make him—

 

Almost as violently as he had taken the other vampire, Cullen shoves himself off of the Toreador, lips curling in a scowl.

 

“Stop doing that!”

 

“Doing what?”

 

The smug look on Dorian's face is grating but Cullen finds he is unable to respond as he wishes, desire bubbling until it festers like a a cancer, makes it almost painful to resist the hand that cradles his cheek as everything, every part of him, is screaming to indulge the small act of affection.

 

“Stop!” he snaps once again, pushing Dorian back against the wall.

 

But he's still in the Toreador's personal space, smell of copper thick with some spiced scent he can't quite identify. His eyes drop to the bleeding wound on the vampire's neck, blood trickling down and staining the edge of the Tevinter's silk shirt. Unconsciously, Cullen licks his lips, still tastes Dorian on them and— _Mafereth,_ has nothing ever tasted this good—when the Toreador's voice drops to a seductive purr, he finds himself unable to turn away.

 

“You give me far too much credit if you think I have any control over your base instincts.”

 

Dorian leans in, presses a gentle kiss to the side of Cullen's mouth. The Fereldan makes a sound that breaks in his throat, moves his face to try and reclaim the Tevinter's lips but already the other vampire is moving back, a hand on Cullen's chest stopping him from closing what little space remains between them.

 

“You owe me, Rutherford,” Dorian whispers.

 

He takes Cullen's hand, guides it down his chest. Silk, smooth and cool to the touch, brushes the tips of the Fereldan's fingers, honey-colored eyes following the gesture. Tight leather strains around a bulge it fails to hide and when Dorian cups Cullen's hand over it, a sound like a whimpered plea spilling off his tongue, it takes self control the Brujah didn't know he was capable of to not drop to his knees right then and there and take the Toreador in his mouth.

 

Most disturbing is the fact that he even _wants_ to suck the other vampire off.

 

“And I intend on calling in that favor at some point,” the Tevinter adds. “And you _will_ do as I say—whatever I say—when I cash in.”

 

“Like hell I will,” Cullen answers, retracting his hand in disgust.

 

He shakes off whatever strange hold Dorian has over him, the loss of contact giving him a clarity that had been missing moments before.

 

“I saved your life,” Dorian reminds Cullen, “and while I find your earlier promise of poetry enticing, I can think of much more... _satisfying_ uses for that tongue of yours.”

 

He steps around the Brujah, dress shoes clicking on the linoleum floor. There's a swagger in his step that draws Cullen's traitorous eyes to the man's hips, has the Fereldan fighting every urge to follow the retreating vampire to wherever room he is about to retire to.

 

So help him, he'd trek the damned Fade if the Tevinter ordered him to in that moment.

 

“You can show yourself out. Do try and not disturb my neighbors by stomping about down the stairs. I already dread having to explain the blood stains to Mlle. de Fer, though it's an improvement over that gauche oak she won't let me replace. Oak doors and redwood flooring? Whatever had the mad woman been thinking.”

 

Dorian's ranting trails off as a door shuts from somewhere inside the flat but Cullen doesn't need to be told twice to leave. He also doesn't need to indulge any of the other vampire's eccentric whims and takes a particular kind of pleasure in slamming the door loudly behind him as he exits the flat, neighbors be damned. Dawn isn't long off and he needs to find Alistair and request a blood hunt before Samson finds passage out of Fereldan.

 

And, Mafereth help him, he needs to get as far from Dorian—and stay as far away as he can—before the asshole can even think of making him do the Tevinter's bidding.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those interested in learning more about _Vampire: The Masquerade_ , please feel free to check out the following [wikia](http://whitewolf.wikia.com/wiki/Classic_World_of_Darkness) page. Or, if any of the terms used in this fic have left you scratching your head, this [glossary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13325517) should hopefully clear that up.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
